Rick Poyner at Design Observer has added a new piece to the growing literature on “ruin porn” that highlights the very “placeness” I attempted to articulate in an earlier positing here.
For an introduction to this project, click here or on the “Industrial Columbus” link in the menu bar.
In response to the massive unemployment that gripped much of America during the Great Depression, President Roosevelt instituted a massive federal recovery project known as the “New Deal.” One of the cornerstones of this project was a new agency called the Works Progress Administration (WPA) whose mission was to establish public works jobs not just for out-of-work-laborers, but also for writers, actors, artists, and musicians who could no longer find employment. The Federal Writers’ Project (FWP) was thus created under the umbrella of the WPA.
One of the primary goals of the FWP was to create a compilation of guidebooks for each state known as the American Guide Series. The Ohio Guide was printed in 1940, and it included sections on the art and architecture of major cities, literature and music from around the state, and most interestingly, driving tours that guide the reader to points of historic and cultural influence across the state.
To accompany the text, over four thousand images were photographed and collected for the Guide between 1935 and 1940, though only a handful were ultimately used. This collection has been painstakingly digitized and had meta-data attached to it by staff and volunteers of OHS digital services.
In addition to the printed Guide, the Ohio Historical Society (OHS) has rough drafts, manuals, and supplementary information that was not printed and offers a tremendous resource for historians (Series 1159). This project will make use of both the archival materials and the printed Guide.
This project explores both environmental change and historical memory. The first task is to conduct a “rephotographic” survey of the sites documented during the initial project that have been digitized by the OHS. First initiated by a photographer named Mark Klett and his team in the late in 1970s as he retraced the route of nineteenth-century western photographers, rephotography has become a valuable tool for many earth scientists and historians to gauge change in the landscape. Shooting in the same location, with the same camera angel and lighting conditions, photographers can create a revealing portrait of environmental change.
Another aspect of the project is concerned with historical memory. The Guide gives us an opportunity to see what writers and editors thought were important aspects of the Ohio landscape in the late 1930s. By retracing the Guide, particularly the tours, I can see if contemporary Ohioans memorialize the same things as their earlier counterparts. Do the same landmarks exist? Have they continued to be memorialized or were they forgotten?
The final form of this project remains to be determined but I will post initial journal entries as we travel the state.
“Maps are power,” geographer Bernard Nietschmann wrote more than a decade ago. “Either you map or you will be mapped.” According to Nietschmann, mapping was—and remains—the ultimate colonial weapon: “More indigenous territory has been claimed by maps than by guns.” Following such an argument, nineteenth-century maps of the American state make for ready historical villains Not only did they graphically depict the violent dispossession of Indian groups in the trans-Mississippi West, but it has become a truism that maps of the American state contained no room for “indigenous geographies.” Historian Jared Farmer writes, for example, “inescapably, the making of the National Map brought about the unmaking of indigenous geographies.”
Farmer is an excellent historian and his work on historical memory in Utah is a model in many ways. Unfortunately, his depiction of Native spatial constructions continue to reinforce the conception that Indians could not understand any sort of geopolitical spatial constructs, only spiritual ones. Further he simplifies complex and often competing landscapes to a unified phenomenological category of “indigenous geographies,” that were “inescapably” at odds with Euro-American constructions.
This project, which is an offshoot of the larger monograph in progress, counters this sentiment by graphically depicting the overlapping and syncretic geographies of the trans-Mississippi West in the middle of the nineteenth century. Using oral histories, explorers, reports, manuscript maps, and printed maps, I am creating a map of the region that would become the states of Kansas, Nebraska, and South Dakota. It will be an interactive map that allows the viewer to compare place-names and territorial control both over time and from different linguistic groups to demonstrate the complex history of the region.
The purpose of this map is to illustrate that not only was Native place-making compatible with the cartographic creation of the American state, it was a necessary part of it. Further, while there are certainly unique aspects to the way Siouan or Caddoan peoples of the eastern plains and prairies spatially understood their world, these were not necessarily compatible, bringing into question the distinct category of “indigenous geographies.”
To demonstrate how this map might illustrate these points, lets look at two maps made in the middle of the nineteenth century: Joseph Nicollet’s Hydrographical Basin of the Upper Mississippi River; and Gouveneur Kemble Warren’s seminal “Maps of the Routes for the Pacific Railraods.” In 1839, Joseph Nicollet travelled up the Mississippi River and taking notes for what most Americans believed to be the most accurate map of the interior of the United States ever made. He did so relying heavily on western Sioux informants. As John Frémont wrote in his journal, “We are occupied quietly among the Indians, Mr. Nicollet, as usual, surrounded by them, with the aid of the interpreter getting them to lay out the form of the lake and the course of the streams entering the river near by, and after repeating pronunciations, entering their names in his note-book.”
Such attention did not, however, insure precise translation. While Nicollet (or more likely Frémont) inscribed Mankizitka or “White Earth River”on the final map published in 1843, the explorer himself acknowledged that it should more properly be translated from the Lakota as Smoking-Earth River for the color of the sediment found in its current. This meaning was further truncated in 1855 when Warren shortened the name simply to “White River.”
Following only the inscriptions from Nicolett’s and Warren’s maps, we are offered the following trajectory: a highly descriptive Lakota oral signifier was first transcribed, then translated and finally truncated, leaving an impotent Euro-American version of a once culturally-rich Sioux name. Yet such an interpretation would both diminish the contribution of the Lakota and greatly simplify a much more complicated past; a past that my map will attempt illustrate.
The Oglala and Brulé Sioux did not gain control of the White River region until the 1820s through an alliance with the Cheyenne. The region was in fact hotly contested by the Arapaho
es, Crows, Kiowas, and Cheyenne throughout the eighteenth century and into the nineteenth. While these groups might have used a similar descriptions of the sediment to describe the river, they certainly did not use the Lakota term “Mankizitka.“
And while the region was contested by the Arapaho
es, Crows, Kiowas and Cheyenne, the term “White River” was just as likely a translation of a Mandan or Hidatsa word. Nicolas King first inscribed the words “White River” in his 1806 version of Meriwether Lewis ’ and William Clark’s manuscript map, a map they had created during their five-month stay among the Mandan and Hidatsa in 1804. As Clark wrote in his journal, while the base for his map was “complied from the Authorities of the best informed travelers,” much of the specific information he gleaned “principally from Indian information.” It would be logical to assume, therefore, that his information regarding the signifier for the waterway in question came either from Hidatsa or Mandan informants, or one of the “bands of Assinniboins” whose villages are inscribed directly on the river, not a Lakota speaker. Thus the name “Mankizitka” is no closer to the Arapaho e, Crow, Kiowa, Hidatsa, or Mandan signifier for the region than “White River” is to “Mankizitka.” When Jospeh Nicollet inscribed the Lakota word on his 1839 map, he was not uncovering an “authentic” Sioux landscape but helping to solidify Lakota control in a region that they had held for no more than two decades.
It is here we see fundamental problem with viewing the cartographic creation of the trans-Mississippi West as simply a new, spurious Euro-American landscape being drawn over a more authentic Indian one: it assumes a previous constant Native landscape existed. This was certainly not the case for the region in question, and particularly for the area between the Missouri and the Platte Rivers. While it was the Brulé who controlled the area when Warren passed through in 1858, the previous fifty years had also seen territorial control by the Ponca, Cheyenne, Omaha, and Skidi Pawnee with frequent incursions by the Sac, Mesquaqie, and Iowa as well as other tribes of Lakota. John Frémont, who wished nothing more than to erase the Native presence from the region, acknowledged that names reflected an active and changing landscape: “Throughout this region, the rivers and lakes and other noticeable features of the country, bear French and Indians names, Sioux or Chippewa and sometimes Shayan [Cheyenne]
By creating an interactive map that allows the viewer to explore this changing landscape, I hope to demonstrate the complicated place “indigenous geographies” have in the cartographic creation of the American state.